


First Name Basis

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [16]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Beaches, Ice Cream Parlor AU, Ice Cream Parlors, M/M, Secret Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-05-04 09:29:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14590038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: They’re not on a first name basis, he and Seb, but god bless name tags.





	First Name Basis

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: You’re an employee and I have a crush on you so when you hand me the soft serve I accidentally grab it by the ice cream instead of the cone. Prompt from this [generator](http://colormayfade.tumblr.com/generator).

This, Chris thinks to himself, this is truly fucking pathetic.

He’s been in a lot of valleys in his life, dips below the median level of everything is ok, and yeah, this particular stumble isn’t putting anybody’s life at risk and (hopefully) won’t result in anyone being arrested, but goddamn, the eyes on the guy at McEnroe’s Soft Serve makes even a night in the pokey seem worth it.

It’s a tourist place, Mac’s, a beach ball’s throw from the shore, and everyone else in line is either under 16 or in charge of somebody who is. There are windblown moms at the end of their rope, sunburned babysitters on their cell phones, harried dads behind aviators clutching a kid’s shoulder in each hand. And the kids, of course; loud and sandy, most of ‘em, joyful in the way that little kids are, hyper at the prospect of ice cream. Everybody, frankly, looks worse for wear. It’s 90+ outside but inside Mac’s arctic bubble, the whole line is shivering and looking downright grateful for it. Chris feels practically penguin; the hair on his arms is standing straight up and it’s nice to think it’s because of the chill but really, it’s Seb’s fault, the guy behind the counter with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a warm fucking smile and a face that would make Botticelli snap his paint brushes and call it a day.

They’re not on a first name basis, he and Seb, but god bless name tags. Bless them. Chris kind of wishes he had one on. That way, he could pretend there was a way for Seb to make the first move, for him to say “Hey, Chris” when it’s his turn at the counter instead of “Sugar or waffle cone?” Waffle cone, obviously; he gives the same answer every day, or has for the week he’s been coming in here. He’d been lollygagging his way towards his shift at the bar--Rojo’s, a block up and two streets over--dragging ass through the sand and soaking up sun before pounding the steps underground to watch muscled yahoos trade shots and try to impress girls in sundresses on their second Long Island Iced Tea. He’d been zonked out on his music, walking the same path he had a hundred times pounding out the beats of old school U2 with his feet when lo and be-fucking-hold, he’d stumbled across the line at Mac’s, a living snake that stretched out onto the sidewalk and looked over, looked in, and spotted a guy behind the glass he’d never seen before: dark hair and light eyes and a shy, soft mouth and when Bono hit the chorus of _I still haven’t found what I’m looking for,_ Chris had thought: _Yeah, well buddy, I have._

It was love at first sight. Or at least very romantic-y lust.

He’d been running late already that day, but he'd joined the line anyway, waited patiently for his chance to ask for two scoops of cherry blossom, to scope out the guy’s name tag and then lose all fucking nerve when Seb smiled at him, when their fingers brushed as he handed Chris his change. (Six bucks for an ice cream cone? Really?) He’d meant to introduce himself, at the very least, if not propose fucking marriage, but instead his tongue had been reduced to soft serve, thick and sweet and utterly unable to form a coherent sentence, much less a convincing ask for a date.


End file.
